December 2 Struggling with it
I am suffering with a longing. I am struggling with it. I can't think, I can't write. I feel like my mouth is closed up. I'm sailing very fast, an ice-boat on the windy lake. I have no depth. My heart is a monster. I'm afraid of it. I'm a reverse child, a child whose heart is disfigured with memories. I want to tell a million stories, like the ones I tried here about kindergarten, but they fall flat and are not entertaining, because they have no endings. I turned into something soft, melting like a heated marshmallow for Rice Krispy Treats. I sent a card to Mr. Cruz, whose tiny poodle, Pinky, was killed by a pit bull. I almost sobbed when I read the story in the paper. I introduced myself to the big black man in the street this morning. His name is Theodore. My name is Catherine. I can't look at the sky. The trees' swaying in the wind makes me dizzy. Today I made friends with a co-worker in Portland, Oregon. Her new granddaughter lives up the street from me. I am holding on to some of these people around me like a little velcro attaching me to the present. My boss's eyes are big and round and dark dark blue. Last night I yelled at my ex-husband. This is a big big mistake. I know I should never ever ever do this. He responds by becoming more pathetic than I could ever have believed possible. I don't care. My mother does the same thing. So I won't yell at them even when they kidnap my son without telling me because it makes me a monster and makes them into dogs lying on their backs. Last night I sat under my desk and cried hysterically. Many people want something from me, something I'm not capable of giving. I didn't know where my son was for an hour. He was with his dad. Should I have known this? I was more pathetic than anyone knows. I can't pray. My chest has been so tight since I cleaned my son's bedroom last weekend. He broke the zipper on his coat today. He breaks the zipper on all his coats. I have a trash bag full of his outgrown shoes downstairs. My ears hurt. Tonight I managed to change the battery on the answering machine to stop that insane blinking green light. But then I destroyed America Online. Isabel Allende is the only person who can help me.

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December 3 Wrestling with it
What happened to me tonight: I dragged myself to the church's First Friday potluck. I felt incredibly alienated from everyone there. I just fed myself, which wasn't a small thing. I remember mostly cheese and crackers. I ate a whole plate of food without tasting it. I listened to people talk. They were talking about money and jobs. They seemed excited. I had no ideas. I had no talk. I was suffering. I wanted to talk to B. She was socializing. Everyone was socializing. I cleaned up like a ghost, picking up the children's mess of plates and napkins. I got my son and went home. His energy was disturbing me. I went to bed at 9pm by accident, fully clothed. I slept solidly for three hours. It was a wrestling sort of sleep. I woke up from a dream that the dogwood tree in my front yard had cracked apart in a storm. And that I was wandering uninvited in someone else's house, in someone else's yard, a house in my neighborhood that I had known nothing about. It was a sad house, on the hill, with neat, wide paths through the bare back yard. I eavesdropped on a sad conversation there between a mother and a daughter. I wrestled very hard with something in my sleep. When I woke up, I was alert and peaceful. I don't know what happened. I read some of Heron Dance, a journal I stole from the church table. It gave me answers, some words about beauty and commitment and love and failure that I needed to hear. I also didn't trust it, I sensed a foreign ego about it. I thought I would do it differently. But I don't know how I would do it. I haven't even progressed as far as failure yet. I don't have good words for what is happening to me, but it is a big shaking thing, from inside and outside. I don't know what it means, and I'm afraid. But at times I become a wee bit more willing to go along with it.

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December 4 More will be revealed
Francis X. Buckman! (just the name of a guy I used to know who probably wouldn't mind having his name taken in vain instead of the Lord's) I am suddenly a believer in astral projection or sensitivity to unknown energies or something. Much more has been revealed today about my excessive overreacting jittery state of mind recently. Now I know what I need to know about the influences. I want to calm down and I will calm down. I'm reading Isabel Allende's Paula. I cannot believe how much I love Isabel Allende's writing. In Paula, everytime she turns from the family stories to the present with her comatose daughter I feel my heart sink to my feet. I am so comforted that she can write through the pain and make this beautiful book. Everyone's friend Ruth is going away. She used to be "heavy and smoking," now she is tiny and frail and white haired. She's going to Vermont to live with her family. I went to her going-away party today. I wrote her a short and very true message in a card with a Rose. I know she's terribly introverted, so I didn't force myself into talking to her very much. She's the first person who led me to consider that introverts could also be loved. Today I noticed silvery cords from a gift box on the front seat of the car. I don't know where they came from. I put them around my neck. They looked a little festive. They came in handy.

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December 5 Resting with it
Painstakingly gathering up my little strands of energy. Neither of the vacuum cleaners is working. One has some kind of immense inaccessible clog in the hose. The other has no bag. I am taking this personally, allowing myself to feel immobilized, with no ability to suck dirt and shit out of the house and out of my life. I read Paula in bed most of the day. I got a first draft of the poetry journal announcement flyer done. I feel hesitant about it. I have to have a presentable copy done by December 10. I've completely lost the focus of this website. I'm in a holding pattern with it. I find I'm needing a lot of rest.

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December 6 Getting back at it
Two long walks bareheaded in the rain with the dog. I'm rainwashed. My pleurisy or whatever it is left me today -- I am feeling so relieved to be rid of this pain in my chest. Tonight, I unclogged the vacuum hose dramatically with a coat hanger. First, it coughed up a couple of binder clips. Then it gave a great gulp and swallowed the clot of dog hair and debris. "It sucks!!" I yelled, filling the house with great joy. I was mesmerized by Paula and I read the book almost nonstop until I finished it tonight. I want Isabel Allende to be my mother. Her passions and her intuitions and her imagination -- food. Next I am going to read Aphrodite even though it will probably kill me. On the other hand, I spent several hours today happily sitting in a meeting where the system architect explained this awesome Java enabling technology. I was thrilled by the challenge of understanding it. I have no idea how I'm going to write about it, but I am. At the end of the meeting, he was getting warmed up to his boasts, and said his writing style could only be explained by the fact that he learned to read reading Ivanhoe. This sent me back in time to 7th grade, summer, the desk in front of the upstairs window, looking out on the humid greenery, with my self-assigned task of reading a dingy little paperback copy of Ivanhoe if it killed me. I read it with a dictionary next to me, which I have never done before or since. Why did I have to read Ivanhoe? I managed to read it, but I can't say I enjoyed it. Celia and Rowena? I don't remember much. Anyway, I clamped my mouth shut because my story didn't seem good enough to support any competitive bragging. I hate competition.

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December 7 Enough?
More than enough More than enough softness more than enough kitchen more than enough organza more than enough words generosity more than enough giving more than enough fingertips on the neck, much more than enough gazing oh many more than enough gifts for all nieces and nephews more than enough neckties more than enough goodwill more than enough calendars but then more than enough curtains maybe more pajamas than enough maybe someday clean underwear more than enough more than enough milk in the refrigerator boys in new down coats, more warm than enough more than enough hope lit more than enough candles more than enough stuffed animals survived more than enough fire smelled more than enough smoke those days and nights, one at a time, already more than enough memories more than enough of fingertips touching more than enough tense muscles in the back cause more than enough relaxation to raise more than enough power to radiate just enough energy to live

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December 8 Flyer work, that's all
I worked hard on the poetry journal Call for Submissions flyer tonight. This effort drained all the writing energy out of me. I like the way the flyer looks. I think it will attract attention. It looks like more work went into it than the ordinary everyday flyer put up on a bulletin board. My goal is to get 100 pieces of work from the "community" by March 1. And that's counting the 12 or so that I already have from last summer. I'm critiquing my own graphic design. Not a good thing. I did manage to save myself from a couple of huge errors. One, destroying the integrity of a font by using great ugly drop shadows. And two, misspelling the name of the mayor. It is really hard to find a person who will give you tough, honest criticism. Maybe I should run it by my old graphics design teacher, who would obligingly rip it to shreds. I'm going to be almost oblivious to the holidays until after December 10.

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December 9 old teahead
I got Jack Kerouac's "Belief and Technique for Modern Prose -- List of Essentials" in the mail today. (thanks, lisa!) (title comes from this) I understand everything he says. The question is -- is modern prose possible working full time, two children, financially responsible, and a no-alcohol habit. Oh yeah and woman. The answer is -- yes. Dammit. I lived through about five lifetimes of moods today. Walking in the woods again for the first time in a while. I sat on a mossy rock and looked at matte silvery maroon twigs. One was patting my knee. Eventually I stopped being so tense and forced myself to open my palms and stretch out my arms to the side. My unclenched palms looked foreign, bloodless white. Pressure at work today. I stood up to it okay although I "admitted defeat" on one issue and had to have emergency chocolate at 4pm. I made a borderline inappropriate comment in a status meeting. Sign that I'm feeling more comfortable. I tried to take a break by reading OPJ (other people's journals). Doesn't work for me. Makes me sick -- with envy? loneliness? not being part of the crowd? feeling god forbid different? not doing it right? not being good enough? holy shit Kerouac would not approve... And then again I cried every time I had a chance. Thinnest of crescent moon makes me cry. My glasses still coated with white salt. Clutter induced meltdown at home triggered by Christmas lights. Not enough sleep. I crawled under the covers. Talked to B. She cheered me up by telling me about a former druggie apartment that another friend bought. Totally trashed. My clutter came into perspective. Laughed. Went downstairs and got stern. Cleaned up the dining room. Not so bad. Phone call from mother. Got cool and weirdly polite. Email from spiritual mother. My heart is in pain from not being able to visit her. I really need to spend time with her, without a lot of other people around. I need to talk to her for hours. Maybe I'll go to Idaho in February. I have a lot of stories I need to tell. I thought about typing them in here. I don't know. I think they are really very banal. If I read this list from Kerouac about 1000 more times, I will get the hang of working "from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea." ooohoohoohh

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December 10 "The Jumblies"
A day of working very hard (anesthetic). An evening of Children's Poetry. I got to read aloud -- "The Pobble Who Has No Toes," "The Jumblies," and "Little Orphant Annie" -- in front of a large crowd of seven (including me). I enjoyed reading aloud so much. I am good at it. While others were reading, my smart-mouth 11-year-old, who was dragged along and who ended up being the token child, amused himself by combing my hair and braiding it, causing a comforting scalp pain while the smell from his stinky cast arm wafted around my head. It was a nice evening. Dear Edward Lear, I love this poem with all my heart. The Jumblies I They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve turned round and round, And everyone cried "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud: "Our Sieve ain't big, But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig! In a Sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. II They sailed away in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a riband by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast; And everyone said, who saw them go, "O won't they be soon upset, you know! For the sky is dark and the voyage is long, And happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a Sieve to sail so fast!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. III The water it soon came in, it did, The water it soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar, And each of them said: "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our Sieve we spin!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. IV And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballo! how happy we are, When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar. And all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail, In the shade of the mountains brown!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. V They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart, And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jackdaws, And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree, And no end of Stilton Cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. VI And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more, And everyone said: "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Terrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore"; And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And everyone said: "If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve -- To the hills of the Chankly Bore!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.

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December 11 Pine - free
A good day. My dad came over with his chainsaw and cut down the great hulking pine in front of the house. I can't believe how happy I am that it's gone. The front of my house looks clean, accessible, charmed, guileless, totally open to the street with all its influences, friends and enemies. I was so happy about the new space I put up the Christmas lights. We're using the top seven feet of the great hulking pine for our holiday tree. It looks ridiculous. Way too broad and way too sparse. It holds a lot of meaning though. Progress, home improvement, asking for help, getting a grip, anti-perfectionism, making do, stepping away, stepping up, loving what you have, forgiveness, letting go of guilt. And not even decorated yet. I had a totally unexpected hour or two of leisure time this afternoon. I just ran out of thoughts of what I had to do. So I just sat there and looked at the Christmas lights. I got pine pitch all over my gloves. The dog got into a bag of M&M's my mother brought over. He threw up what looked like a chocolate ice cream soda on the carpet. I reopened my account at the video store. I took a bath. Four candles and my job hunting journal. I'm trying to feel gratification that I got through that difficult time and made relatively good decisions. OKAY --? Good decisions! I'm just coming out of the shellshock. Things just take so much time I can't believe it.

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December 12 More and more birds
TwoBirds all day. Or a flock. TwoBirds sitting on a rock. Watching winter's distant blue at 3 pm A solitary seagull flies through, gilt with early sunset Then another. They fly great wheels and circles of gold, follow the leader, tag, hide-and-seek in the cold high sky. Bedraggled Christmas dove from the box wired sideways drunken on the bough Dove B's even worse, white breast stained brown hopeless as a thing with feathers red eyes all awry. Baby geese smell like candy, sweet. One morning we rescued a young goose, sodden without full grown feathers, almost drowned in the bathtub. I had forgotten how it felt to pick up day old chicks and put them in a box to sell at the ranch supply store. Their little wiry feet scrabble under the ball of fluff and they peep like hell. Stirling plucked a few dead ones out of the cage every morning. The ducks were stupid and ratty, they laid their eggs in the grassy weeds and ran away low with fear. Chickens roosted lovely in the eucalyptus, settling down at dusk. I already wrote about what happened to the turkey. The geese were noble and noisy but I never knew if they mated for life. I never knew what happened to them at all, after I moved away. He was going to bring them in the Uhaul, but he didn't. Maybe they lived happily ever after. Pidge did once make a friend. A sleek white pigeon with pink eyes, attracted by his constant cooing. Now she's gone.

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December 13 Trrrkeygrrrl
Backyard 1234 Darling Street Napa, California 1979

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December 14 Presolstice syndrome
Reaching out, groping. I want to put my hands into a meditative black fuzzy floating core where they will turn into vapor and disappear. My son strung so many Christmas lights that the whole living room blazed with color brighter than day. The noise of TV was making my brain vibrate. My teeth hurt from the dentist. My son smells bad. He bangs his cast on everything, including me. The dog took a fit and flung his body repeatedly against the sliding glass doors, in a barking frenzy at an invisible reindeer spirit in the backyard. I got criticism on the flyer. I don't know what to do about it. I'm in the bog of hopelessness before I get an idea for improvement. Plump Nostalgia tried to comfort me with a shawl but I looked her hard in the eye and flung it off. I wrote a few greeting cards, not many, not enough. Read and reread Will's letter, missed California for about 5 minutes. Brisk Housekeeping pressed her whisk broom and dustpan into my slack hands and said Get Busy. It didn't work. I pouted. I slunk around the bathroom on my hands and knees, wiped a little dust from behind the radiator and then started thinking idly about insects. Seductive Nighttime -- wind and rain and atmosphere -- she got embarrassed, packed her things, and went home. Her whole act turned into a looney satire because all the decorative lighted reindeer in the neighborhood keeled over and died on their front lawns. I unplugged half the lights in the living room and said stupidly "It's darker in here now." Darker and darker and darker and darker and darker and darker and darker. Looked at the elk skull on the piano. Thought about Dowie the cannibal and the shining aborigines' destruction. I feel massively madly badly rebellious.

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December 15 What are you thinking
My hands are cold. I feel like crying. I had WAY too much time on my hands at work today. I have guests -- Sweetie the cat, Martin the parakeet, and Fudge the hamster. I don't know what to write. Kerouac said "Something that you feel will find its own form." How organic. How organized. I made organic butternut squash, couscous, and chicken for dinner. Then I made a double batch of candied walnuts, a holiday tradition. I'll take them to the minister's retirement event Friday. I'm avoiding. Something that I feel. Avoiding, avoiding, avoiding. Avoiding some more. I can't write about it. It's foreign. I was on the way to imagining something grotesque at work today. It's like I have a false skin just beneath my skin. It's a synthetic skin. It's electrified and it sparkles and burns and swirls. It was formed as a shadow from my dark silk blouse with the paisley print. What a waste of effort. Then I realized with horror that the maiden aunts were angry with me. This made me feel so lonely, I can't tell you. Luckily Ann and Sarah came over with their pets. We drank Jamaican peppermint tea in the kitchen. This box of tea is marked with the slogan "Patience is the food of life." I thought about the Big Silence that I'm making. I'm not upset about it. It feels good but not great. I've never done this before -- stopped writing in the private journal. It's a little daring. But no more so than every other person that dares to not document their life. I've been thinking a lot about Faith. I've never been a person of Faith. I'm too addicted to that frisson of fear or expectation of surprise. Why "know" something when you can torture yourself with "what if's"? But I've needed a form of Faith to combat the quaking instability. So I've been holding alternative competing Faiths. This seems to entirely miss the point. Did I write this before? I feel like I did. This memory is so vividly strong. At a retreat in High School. The topic of our guided meditation -- we were in our fishing boats and we could see Jesus in another fishing boat. We were directed to imagine how we would react. One pure sweet girl said out loud that she wanted only one thing -- to get to Jesus's boat. I kept secret in my heart that this sounded suspiciously slutty to me. I kept secret in my heart that I only wanted one thing -- to jump into the water and stay there until my contemplation clarified the world and my solitude deified me unto myself. I didn't care that I would drown. I just wanted to stay underwater. Mermaid aflush with secrets and the bright electric.

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December 16 One talks the other doesn't
Not a word she whispered. Not even a peep. Not a sound. Not a syllable. Not a creature was heard. Not a wish went up the chimney. Okay here goes. Really teenage poems. From 1973. When girl-me could write what old-me won't. Search Try to forget the emptiness shown in those strangers we met, but could not know or talk to 'cause they were machines filled with circuits and metal, minds empty of dreams. Said he and we left, heads still spinning with smoke we pulled up the collars on each other's coats to guard our soft necks from the chilling cold sleet then we drove, still, alone, through each dark, endless street till clear dawn and bright hope lit the sky and our faces. What we needed skipped into our dust leather cases The plan was a quest to where the light led us beyond the horizon to take what life gave us. We made the world ours through all sorrow and storm We drew from life love to keep our selves warm. We were lucky perhaps to be open so wide to invite what may hurt to come visit inside. (fragment) Learning to be vulnerable enough that evil in the world really hurts you is not an easy or a crowded path But to sit and rest in the gardens at the end is paradise. Song of Sorrow June 17, 1973 The brightest day of summer Sees leaves still falling in my heart I wish the rain could match my tears Or that I sleep through these strange sad years Or that the music start To drain these mournful melodies all tangled in my head, till I'm half-alive, half-dead, and I feel my sadness spread to the people that I greet. If someone sang a thoughtful song of love and happiness and peace I'd lose the taste of strong defeat, the bitters in my mouth. So I spend my endless days Unmoved by rhythm or by word As though I hadn't even heard, Waiting for the hoped-for song that promises to ease my wrong and heal my troubled heart.

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December 18 how many more goodbyes
Stan sat on the edge of the stage. He looked like a little child, his frail gray hair rumpled, his little feet in neat shining shoes placed next to each other. Dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie, matching shoes and socks. He was holding the great flaming chalice sculpture on his lap, all coppery and turquoise, calla shaped curvey. He was speechless. A voice from the back of the sanctuary called out "Do you know now how much we love you?" Lisa took a thousand pictures. She was wearing a filmy flopping blouse of red and orange chiffon exploding with ruffles and beads, under the blouse a cranberry purple camisole cut low on the breast showing off her moles. Her skirt was made from a drapery or a bedspread, a purple to blue type of fabric that hugged her butt and hips. She tucked thick honey blond hair behind her ears and couldn't stop talking about Stan's leaving. He's completely living out the myth, she moaned, the archetype of the dismembered male at the time of the solstice. Retiring at this time of year, entering the underworld, he can't grieve, he's recently lost both his parents, she's worried about him. He said he would come back in March -- everything he said followed the archetype exactly. Sculptor David stumbled on stage hunched over his accordion, his hair unbearably white his skin so fragile. He lost two grown children just last year. He played Ravel's "Pavanne for a Dead Infanta" on the accordion. I crawled to the front and sat under the grand piano, hugging my knees to my chest. His effort of fingers, iron in the chin, pressure and release breathing rhythm in the lungs -- I couldn't bear it. Glass, the music sounded like glass, we're all surrounded by glass, waving from tilting glass towers, clear and terrifying. David has been married and divorced four times. Connie is with him now, warrior guardian woman, wearing a belted tabard of brown suede and tan knit bellbottoms. Her face is strong and lovely, her hair is iron gray and her legs are incredibly long. He has become so absent-minded, she says with nerves in her throat. After the ceremonies and the gifts and the speechlessness and the music, we all rushed forward. Lisa started in on the archetype and Stan, annoyed, said "Lay off that will you" and then gave her a big hug. David stumbled to the back of the room. He said to me "I desperately need some champagne."

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December 19 SunDay with a chance of clouds
Wake up at 1 am with a flashback attack of fear? feels like worry about my teenager; then I remember he's at college, I'm anxious because I talked to him last night, he's coming home Wednesday, save worry till then Go back to sleep; get up at 6:30; feel bronchial pain and gloom Walk the dog at sunrise; feel exhausted; cry Grocery store at 7am to avoid the crowds Pick up stocking stuffers for the kids at the grocery story Home, wash dishes from pathetic trial run cookie baking last night Watch 10 minutes of Martha Stewart -- my son says "She's getting all technical about the partridge and the pear tree" Eat two small cinnamon buns Shower & get ready for church in a mad rush Go to church; another moving pre-retirement service In the social room; eat two cookies Spill my guts to Lee; the whole story in 5 minutes; feels good Talk to Ann for a long time about the poetry project, the goddess, and Zen Back home, clean my room in a frenzy until I feel nauseous (Housekeeping often makes me feel nauseous, why is that) Iron the dresser cloths, arrange a solstice altar with one black candle Rest on the couch for 1/2 hour hoping nausea will go away; can't sleep Eat a bowl of cereal Work on the poetry journal flyer for 2 hours, tinkering with it to the point of obsession Walk the dog at sunset; feel exhausted; cry Come in feeling ill, bronchial pain, shaking with hunger Desperately order pizza after ruling out all other possibilities Go out for cash, gas, pizza, and Coke Come home and eat; feel much better Talk to mom on the phone; my son called her, told her I didn't feel well; now I feel pleasantly guilty that she takes on anxiety about my vague sick feeling Talk to B on the phone; talk to V on the phone; we're trying to hatch up a full moon howling scheme for Wednesday night now that the trip to Bethlehem (CT) has fallen through; this plan cheers me up quite a lot Go out to do the remaining bulk of the Christmas shopping; it's manageable, since I do not expect too much of this particular discount store Act like Santa carrying the bags of gifts into the house; say Ho Ho Ho Move the cat into the basement; maybe her litter dust is getting to me Tinker with the poetry journal flyer just a leeetle bit more -- I'm not sure it's getting any better, have to look at it again tomorrow -- but I think I'm done with it Order Francis Ponge and William Carlos Williams from Amazon -- I have to have these books Vacuum the computer room; creatively suck up a strand of Christmas lights; almost everytime I vacuum I suck up something really inventive; manage to extract the lights from the beater bar -- everything still works! Put my son to bed, rearranging his mess of covers Rest for five minutes; wonder why I'm writing this journal anyway Now we're getting into the future ... have to stop

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December 20 Huh
Rain streaked dirt girl mud swirl clay smothered writhe rise out of brown teeth intense and sugar skin drown mire sizzle into reform deform dizzy electric rain larks drain down align illumine limn mark dazzle sparkler sprinkler startles dark where silence inner impulse buzzes allergic whorls whirl skin under blender tenderize her drizzle shock quicker dance her danger Huh breathe breathe breathe sleep sleep spanglenose gleelips eyes misted in brainfall bright hair rinsed breathe breathe wreathe deathe revive receive Huh stompin moon of rich make thus my night when weird rabbit falls well and I watch whorlpool spin more slow lightblue milk spirals when dawn pink smiles then start search

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December 21 escape velocity
nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, I just like to write. Wandering in the neighborhood a long time at dinnertime, walking the dog, looking at the Christmas lights, my steps said gloom, gloom, gloom, gloom, then I turned a corner into my house and fell in love with the beauty of the pork loin and the butternut squash, and fell in and out of sleep on the couch, I sure could use some more SLEEP, and how do people stand moody people, I don't know, my horoscope is raving and raving and raving about FINANCIAL SUCCESS and breakthroughs and my best time of year is NOW, and I'm hoping to survive providing maid service and Santa Claus as well as high quality technical writing "firing on all cylinders" for a few more days until the three day weekend when the vet will see the dog on Christmas Eve for a pedicure and I'll wrap and wrap and wrap like a wrapping maniac and then I'll bake myself into a stupor and then I'll avoid the family by needing to work on poetry journal mailing list -- this is late, too late?, I don't know when to do it, I can't stand the thought of doing this project, so today my horoscope came right out and said MY SENSE OF TIMING SUCKS. Just pure lunacy and I've been like this for many many years.

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December 22 good night moon
A funny disconnected solstice. My son was stayed home from school today with the flu. I wasn't feeling so well myself. But we went out to the golf course at 5 pm as planned to watch the moonrise. We never did find our hostess and her friend. My friends dragged their visiting son along. Perpetual student. Unattached. I can see why. He seemed almost belligerently shy, disconnected and resentful of everything. What made this even more creepy was that he's exactly the same age as I am, same month, same day, same year. He's about 10 hours older. I hope this doesn't say too much about my planetary influences. I hope his folks weren't trying to fix him up with me or B. We are far too wonderful for people like him. The two men walked about aimlessly and uncomfortably in the parking lot. The three boys tried to complain, and got cold, and tried to get our money for the snack machine. The three women sang songs to the moon out on the dark golf course. It's hard to think of songs with the word Moon in them. So I made up lyrics like "And I'll sing a song of love and a moon in the wintertime" and "Go tell it on the mountain, the moon has risen tonight..." Ha. It was fun. Then B and I sang a hilarious rendition of Van Morrison's "Moondance," because we knew none of the words and just used scat syllables and body language. It was good. Not too much howling. Just a little yipping. I was trying to imitate the coyotes yelping out on the cold high plains of Central Washington. We finally left and eventually found our hostess back at her house. They had been in the lower parking lot. It's so odd that we missed each other. But the dinner was great. I set aside my impending flu to enjoy it. Then I picked up my impending flu again when my older son wanted me to pick him up at midnight tonight in Hartford. He said, okay, tomorrow. PS Make a note -- I think this was the first time I've ever heard somebody actually say "the pubic triangle" at dinner.

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December 23 Christmas presence
"This is one of your biggest festivals, isn't it?" (Indian programmer) ~~~~~~~ Music student gets off the bus in Hartford -- four inches of scraggly red beard, a foot of dishwater blond pony tail, blue and green fleece hat, assorted baggy ugly khaki-ish shirts and pants, broken down leather jacket, sneakers with extremely large holes to show off festive red wool socks, a guitar, backpack, fingerless ragg wool gloves, and a large gaudy hatbox. He looks like a Giant Hairy Christmas Elf Down on His Luck. My sons and I walked through Bushnell Park from the bus station back to the car. I had found a parking spot in the capitol lot. The capitol looked like a big cake. The trees in the park were all lit up with many tiny lights, a Christmas wonderland. We had dinner at a Chinese buffet. Awesome watching your kids eat and enjoy it. He talked about movies the whole time. He talked about music all the way home. He has huge quantities of knowledge and opinions and enthusiasm. He has the lingo down even better than at Thanksgiving. He sounds completely natural talking about "out" music and "a great deal of intelligence in their lyrics." He spoke freely to me for the first time in ? I don't know what to feel about him. I don't feel joy, because I'm still afraid. He's totally changed twice in the last five years. And I'm afraid life will be hard on him. He has a jillion plans. Life is so hard. Why did I have kids again? He borrowed my car. Yikes. Mostly I feel overwhelmed by him. Like he's big huge amazing unexpected unpredictable expensive-to-maintain very breakable Christmas present. Tonight felt like my Christmas.

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December 24 binding and unbinding
I finished up my Santa duties. It's only midnight. Two candelabras with three white candles each and two green bayberry votives. Loreena McKennitt's The Book of Secrets. Drank herbal tea and tried to stay away from sugar. The best things I ate today were Grapefruit and Avocado. My baked goods were, if I do say so myself, the best at the Christmas Eve social hour. They were almost all gone by the time I got in there. Lemon squares, brownies, poppy seed cookies, and spiced walnuts. I offered many hugs and handshakes at church tonight. So much warmth. The music was beautiful. I sang my heart out. I was dressed in ruby flame on a black field, wearing my silver stretchy cord as a binding necklace. I was very lackadaisical in buying gifts for my kids this year. Tonight I felt -- shit, I don't have enough for Older One. Finally I just wrote him a card expressing some feelings and some regrets. Oh yes, and enclosing some money. This felt good. I feel a surging need for change in the family/holiday traditions. Serenity Prayer. I was very bad tonight. I went over to my parents and went to sleep. It was a completely conscious decision -- it seemed the best use of my time. Every year my mother says "they don't play the traditional religious carols anymore." In church tonight I thought about tradition and new carols, the new, a new year. A vision came to me of life as each day a day of gifts, just a torrent of gifts every day of our lives, so we have no need for nostalgia, and the last day of our lives, death as a great great gift. Hhmm. A vision that will be hard to keep ahold of. Another thing happened in church -- I'm finally communicating with Aphrodite Rain Dress. Now that I've given her a pet name, she seems to be more friendly. She promised me that I would have wonderful new relationships in the New Year, one way or another. I'm ready and she wants to give. I felt more peace than I have for quite awhile. AND this means energy to work on the poetry journal project!

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December 25 umTalk
Dixie. Freddie and Flossie, Nan and Bert. Ricky Ricardo. Midnight. Ophelia. Freebling. Plus One. Cats in common. OK talk catstory. But not about Pickles. Fingernails. Eyebrows. Pluck to shape versus Pluck to clean. Beauty products. Hair. Mascara. Height. Weight. The shape of the ears. Talksoothe, talkskindeep. Intersibling violence. Getting marched to the bedroom. Petrified into perfectionism. You were "sensitive." Talksalve. Cemetery. New gravestone. My dad makes us move out of the hearing of the dead to talk about the harshness of the prison in Virginia and how if you do something wrong twice, you get SHOCKed. I thought he said SHOT. Talkshock, my ears too cold to hear. Autobiographies, a family tradition. I can almost read between the lines. What I want to know is notsaid. The end - when husband dies. Facttalk, anachronisms, same old story. A favorite subject -- otherfamily gossip, shakeheads, tsk tsk. I am fascinated by observing talking/notalking in my family. Mystories - a rising tide of stories restrained behind a massive breakwater. Why? They swirl and pound with power and fury. I get to tell sickstory today, first time. I can't tell travelstory, strengthstory, funnystory, lovestory. I can't hear grudgestory, truestory, sorrystory, painstory - do I want to? Mystories - I'm not supposed to have them. Mystories - not supposed to write them. Mystories - those men never listened. Mystories - yourstories. The storytrade stopped just after it started and this still hurts. Hard embargo. Hurricane. Storm story surge pounds this seawall. Can you hear what I'm saying???

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December 26 emergency of tedium
I'm starting to write in my paper journal again. Little bits and pieces. Safe: the online journal my room out in the street after dark about a four-foot length of the kitchen counter that I can keep clean church the grocery store from about 10 to 11:30 pm Unsafe: the paper journal the basement (except for the sump pump, which I adore) the bathrooms (toilets are very threatening) the dining room any woods two whole towns any mall between midnight and about 5:30 am I have to wonder about some of these answers. (I am silly and self-indulgent.) I feel a little scared of the imagination in general right now. Too much exposure to family, violent movies, the traditional menu, my teenager, finances, and the minutiae of the poetry journal project. These are not unsafe, they just are not particularly good for me in large quantities, especially in combination. What I'm planning for New Year's Eve: go to Goodwill take a jacuzzi at B's house (I'm not afraid of her bathrooms) go to a DANCE party at the LIBRARY (what a hoot that could be) roam around downtown after dark watch fireworks in a downtown park with my younger son and kiss strangers

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December 27 emergency of giddiness
Wow, an aimless roving gang of endorphins tackled me tonight and beat on me with their soft shimmering fins. Their suspicious influence made me dance in my dark bedroom to "Oh Happy Day" -- He - taught - me - howwww and then I ate a lot of food, scrambled eggs, avocado, shrimp, crystallized ginger, and frozen chocolate chips, washed down with some store brand Orangina. Then I wrote a few chiming warm erotic objects in my personal journal and I worried about the humidity and the candle flames and the puddles of spilled wax on the blanket. Oh well. I think it all started when I was able to get the blower in my car fixed today. Heat in the car is a great great thing when you haven't had it for two days of driving over the river and through the woods. I was so pleased, I was able to maintain some bewitched distance from nonevents on the ride home. I found myself thinking "romance is a natural process, like the making of cheese" and this struck me as so funny that I laughed out loud in the car. The laughter sounded like a burbling brook. I am losing it. When I got home my older son was cozed on the couch with the Christmas lights all on watching "Shakespeare in Love." I got APR in the mail (American Poetry Review) which as usual is full of dreck except for a few gleams and a stubborn loyalty to words anyway. I read some of Jane Hirshfield. Jane, oh Jane. You try, really try, to be exalted but you are missing the streak of giddy irresponsibility in your nature that would really make you shoot through the sky. Remind me to never ever ever write serious poetry criticism. My younger son is staying at Grandma's with his cousins for a few days. I don't remember that he has a weighting effect on me until he's gone for awhile and I start floating around up near the ceiling.

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December 28 a distraction of jewels
Looking to the men (Kerouac, Rimbaud, Miller, etc.) for advice, I find nothing but frustration. I'm stuck in my house. Both my kids are gone, the younger one at Grandma's, the older one I don't know where, he is not considerate enough to call even when I ask him to. I feel empty and lonely and empty and lonely and stuck in the house. I can't go hop on a freight train and I can't hitchhike and I can't stay up all night and I can't go get drunk and freeze out under the stars. So I took out the trash like a good girl and took myself to the movies where Johnny Depp was good for 2 hours of mindless distraction and got gas and came home. I was still here. Damn. So I sat at the computer for a long time frustrated. I made the December archive. I got up, ate some pizza, sat back down. Made some tea, ate some more chocolate chips. The dog is nervous. I worry about my kids every five seconds. I think about calling somebody out west. Even though I know it would help, I don't do it. I am pissed off and frustrated. Finally I barely grasp on to jewelry as the metaphor. It's almost as attractive as escape. I could go somewhere with jewelry, moving from an adornment aspect to a mutilation aspect, moving from the aspect of value to the aspect of emptiness. Last Friday I wrote this: "The only respect and honor I can give is to coat my love with tinfoil and hang it around my neck like a heart, like a pendant - only inside there is nothing but an empty void." I have a hollow heart pendant. I wasn't thinking about it when I wrote that. I wore this pendant for several months almost every day before I left my old job. I have a gold spiral armband. The armband could at any moment turn into tendrils of gold which crawl up my arm, around my neck, and down the other side, until I'm immobilized by gold spirals. Today I read somewhere that it's not good to wear too much metal on the body. It's bad for your chi. I look at diamond rings and I see South African miners. I can't help it. I DON"T UNDERSTAND why everyone doesn't see diamond rings this way. I had to leave my old job after the fifth or sixth diamond ring was waved in my face by yet another happy bride-to-be. I never had the heart or the guts to launch into any kind of miner tirade at those moments. I see a movie scene with a sort of a flashing special effect of lots of jewelry morphing into patches of darkness, voids in the body. Maybe the bracelets clatter to the floor as the arm vaporizes. In the movie "Heavenly Creatures," the mother was murdered as she reached down to pick up the big beautiful pink jewel. In one of the Indiana Jones movies, the villain picks up the fireheated half medallion and burns its image into his palm. Guy de Maupassant, The Necklace. I remember that story from -- high school? I thought it was horrible. Wow. Energy. I'm mildly entertained. I'll keep this theme in mind, even though it's a blatantly, wretchedly feminine theme. But now I'm going to declare this lousy day over and beg for some distracting dreams.

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December 29 the blender
I turned into a block of styrofoam sitting at my desk squeaky with loneliness and then I got up and walked about and turned into a ice sculpture, fantastic in sparkles tossed up by the river, and then I walked back and gradually turned into a three-year-old's full-fledged tantrum, screaming and stomping my feet with abandonment, and then I drove home and turned into a hearthbroom, sweeping clean dishes and laundry into being, and then I turned into an unpiloted shopping cart stalled at the end of the aisles wondering where to go from here and what does one eat over New Year's, and then I came home and became a mechanical pencil doing yet another version of the poetry journal flyer and the CALL for HELP. I'm a little disoriented. Somewhere in there I experienced a dramatic shift in mood, which was a relief, and allowed me to get all efficient this evening. I am almost ready to do the mailing of this flyer. If I get a few more items taken care of tomorrow, I can prepare the mailing over the long weekend. OK. I was thinking back over this year. No wonder I'm disoriented. It has been the most dramatic year in quite awhile. I still can't believe I left my job. I think my shadow self is still there working away at the Year 2000 problem. I made a mid-career correction of medium size proportions. I get to dress casually now. I wasted quite a lot of time and money indulging myself in computer graphics training. I went to a workshop with two fabulous witches. I went to a week long writer's conference in August. I went to the Devi exhibit in Washington. I got a grant. My older son started college. My younger son got zits. I was healthy all year except for a bad few days in October. I had sort of a heart attack (metaphorically) in October. I fought with the whole idea of love hard for two months and then love suddenly left the ring and I put my boxing gloves up to my eyes and just cried. Now it's the end of December. Not much else can happen. So might as well RELAX.

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December 30 ferns, ice, the river
There's a fern event going on. The flyer art has a fern in it, and the poem Cecilia chose to scribble on there had the line "the tenderest fern." Today at the post office, I had to choose between two stamps for the mailing -- the ugly fluorescent pink rose or -- lush fabulous beautiful tropical flowers complete with FERNS! I nearly fainted in the post office. I bought 200 stamps. Everytime I looked at those stamps today, I wanted to swoon. Watch out, ferns are coming. The poetry journal will have to have fiddleheads in it. Who can I get to draw fiddleheads? The site is down. I hate that. My ISP has not been very good, really. Maybe I'll change it this coming year. For all I know, I'm out of space, or I haven't paid my bill. After Y2K dust settles, I'll get my online act together again. (Maybe) I had a GOOD day. First, ferns. Then I found out from my mom that my sister's boyfriend had dumped her. Everyone was devastated. My sister can be classified as single and desperate, I guess. A maiden aunt. Evilly, this crisis made me feel even happier, out of gratitude for all my Resources. At lunchtime I raced out of the building, and half ran all the way through the woods down to the river. I kept saying "I'm going to break my ankle, I'm going to break my ankle" as I swooped down the rocky rutted path. I couldn't help it. When I got to the river, ankles intact, I went out and sat on a rock in the middle of the water. I can meditate there! Something about the noise of the water surrounding me completely calms my mind. I identify with the river. It's soothing. Time passes. Things happen. I plunged my hand into the cold water and splashed some on my head and in my face. If anyone had dared me to strip and immerse myself, I think I would have done it in an instant. (a little hyped) Running back up the hill, I stopped at the little hillside cave. Just inside the cave entrance to my left, a lightbulb shape made of ice was forming from a slow drip. Far more perfect than a stalagmite, the most perfect curvy ovally shape of icy opalescence, just sitting there shy on a bed of leaves. And if I listened very closely, I could hear water dripping deep inside the cave. Shivers. Then I ran up hill some more and got the idea for the January graphic. The ultimate in appropriate songs came to me without effort and I sang it out of breath in the woods and I had a wonderful time. Then I worked so hard this afternoon on the Java documentation that I got a headache. I think I'm getting the hang of it.

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